


just hear this and then i'll go

by only_because3



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_because3/pseuds/only_because3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grabs the wrist going for his hand before it can touch him, his creaky fingers closing around a smaller, smooth wrist. The hand turns in his grasp but doesn’t try to retreat and the minute an ‘N’ is signed into his palm, he opens his eyes. She finishes signing her name, a small smile on her face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just hear this and then i'll go

**Author's Note:**

> Recently discovered Scarlett Johansson's Tom Waits cover album. I was listening to "Who Are You?" and this story is what sprang from it. I lift a few lines from the lyrics in the story too. Anyway, I was fascinated with the idea of Natasha having a longer life than Clint, which I realize is something more from the comics. However, I'm WAY more familiar with MCU and so I'm going mostly off that (though this just applies for characterization I suppose). I hope neither of them seems out of character. Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and according to good ol' google translate Lyubimyy moya = my favorite and starik = old man, both being Russian.

He hates being hooked up to so many machines. He’s got wires connected to pads on his chest, an IV dumping god knows what into the veins of his left hand and another monitor on the index finger of his right hand. There’s a catheter too, just put in this morning, but he’s trying not to think about that one.

    He’s thankful, at least, that he doesn’t have to deal with all the noise. He’d switched his hearing aids off, but hadn’t taken them out, once the nurse left to check on him earlier. He settles on his back, sinking further into the hospital bed and closes his eyes. There’s been fuck all on TV and he doesn’t want to reach for his glasses.

    He doesn’t know how much time has passed but it couldn’t have been very long when he notices a faint smell from the past overpowered by the smell of Chanel No. 5. He grabs the wrist going for his hand before it can touch him, his creaky fingers closing around a smaller, smooth wrist. The hand turns in his grasp but doesn’t try to retreat and the minute an ‘N’ is signed into his palm, he opens his eyes. She finishes signing her name, a small smile on her face. Letting go of her, he rasps, “Get me my glasses.” Her hand lingers in his and grabs his glasses with her other hand, sliding them onto his face with ease. Her hair, still red, is pulled up into a high ponytail, the strands that escape curled perfectly. Her dress reminds him of Kentucky and the derby, the skirt full and the top structured to her. Her face is painted and composed, the smile her own, but everything else decidedly not Natasha. “Who’re you this time,” he asks, flicking on his aids and scooting over just enough so that he can offer her a seat next to him.

    “Nancy,” she answers, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Bit of a Southern belle.” She adds a small accent when she says it.

    He hums a little before muttering, “I liked Natalie better.”

    She relaxes a little bit more in her spot before firmly grasping his hand and giving it a small squeeze. “Lyubimyy moya.”

    His Russian is a little rusty but that’s something he’d never forget. “S’pretty big compliment coming from you.”

    “The highest, starik,” she says in a way that is almost playful for her.

    He scoffs. “Old man? I’m still younger than you,” he teases and there’s a look in her eyes now, a certain gleam he can’t believe he’s gone without for twenty years. Still… “You look tired.”

    “It is exhausting,” she sighs. “Pretending to love. What was it you told me before you left?” She taps a finger against the inside of his wrist as she thinks. “‘I’m getting too old for this shit?’”

    He smiles. “You’ve still never watched a single one of those movies, have you?” She shakes her head. “That’s a damn shame.” She rolls her eyes. Then, he feels her completely settle next to him. “Still jumping out of windows in expensive clothes?”

    Her lips quirk in the corners. “Do I know how to do anything else?”

    “Fuck, if I know… You could’ve learned to knit.” She digs her nail into his skin and he starts to laugh. “Hey, those needles could double as weapons.”

    “Well, I will hide a needle under my skirt then. But I am not going to take up knitting,” she asserts and he raises his hands in defeat. “But yes, still doing the job while ridiculously over dressed more often than not.”

    “Poetry in motion,” he muses and she looks at him strangely.

    “The Clint Barton I knew thought poetry was for pussies.”

    He shrugs lamely. “Had to do something when I retired.”

    “So you read poetry,” she asks, sounding genuinely surprised and he thinks that makes sense. She was always the surprising one between the two of them… He doesn’t think she was all that surprised when he decided to leave SHIELD either.

    “I read anything and everything but I didn’t find the right words for you until I read poetry,” he admits. “Like that time in Venezuela, when you ran full speed off the roof in that flowy green dress that was half ripped and bloody… Poetry’s the only way to describe it, I think."

    She softens in a way he’s not sure he’s seen before and she leans forward, running her fingers through his white hair. “Who knew you would become so suave,” she tries to joke, her hand moving to cup his cheek. She studies his face for a moment before saying, “It doesn’t have to be like this.” It’s the echo of her words twenty years ago.

     He shakes his head. “It does. People aren’t supposed to live forever.”

    “I will not live forever,” she protests, her back straightening and her hands returning to her lap. “I will die.”

    “At some point.” He puts a wrinkled hand on her knee. “It’ll still be, what, a hundred more years before you look like me?”

    “Two, I think,” she says lightly.

    “That’s two forevers to me.” She nods and relaxes just a little bit again. They’ve been over this. No need to rehash things they settled years ago. They know that’s not why she’s here.

    A cough catches in his throat unexpectedly and he tries to swallow it down but it only makes it worse. His whole body shakes with each cough, his hand gripping her knee without meaning to, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, her muscles staying relaxed despite it. She takes a cup of water from his tray and, tucking an arm under his head, lifts him so he can drink. It takes a minute, and he spits up some of the water in the process, but the coughing subsides, then disappears. She wipes his cheek, chin, neck with her hand. Worry has sunk into her features. “Time has never been our friend, has it?”

    He clears his throat and produces a gravely, “No.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Life’s a bitch, but we’ve always known that.” She pushes his glasses higher on his nose. She looks at him fondly before-

    “I wish I could’ve grown old with you,” she says suddenly. It is the opposite of what was said back then, when he was just graying and breaking and deciding to leave everything behind.

    “All these lies you tell,” he murmurs and she lets a frown appear on her face.

    “I have never lied to you.” She looks at him carefully. “Chosen silence over honesty,  yes. But I have never lied,” she stresses. She doesn’t break their eye contact, not once, and he reads her, suddenly gets it in a way he didn’t then. Despite how much this job takes out of her, the thought of retiring, of being normal, is not something she could do, couldn’t have done even if he wasn’t aging faster than her. But that doesn’t mean she loved him any less, that she didn’t wish she could be the person he needed.

    He nods, his fingers, which are still calloused but this time from pinpricks rather than the string of a bow, running back and forth on the inside of her leg. She looks away, lets out a breath, and blanks her face just enough to make her feel like she’s in control. “How long can you stay?”

    She checks the gaudy watch on her wrist. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye before taking the watch off and throwing it in the ridiculously big bag she brought with her. “As long as you want me to.”

    His eyebrows raise. “What about the mission?”

    She smirks. “What about the mission where you were supposed to kill me?”

    He grins. “Touche.” He tries to bring her closer, puts more pressure on where his hand lays on her leg, and she takes in all the wires and tubes before she makes her move. She lets her heels fall carelessly to the floor, maneuvers around everything and him in a way that is positively feline before setting against his side. Her arm settles low on his belly and he can’t resist. “Careful, or you’ll give me a boner.”

    The laugh that sparks from her throat is one that only he has heard (or, at least, he thinks. He’s not too sure now, but once upon a time, it was true). It’s her own laugh, not anyone else’s. “Well, I’m glad that hasn’t given out on you,” she muses and he wraps his arm around her tighter.

    “Not completely useless down there yet. Don’t think I could give you the thrill I once did though.”

    She shakes her head before propping it up on her arm. “I’m sure you could,” she says sincerely.

    He asks anyway. “Even like this?”

    She smiles a little wider. “Even like this.”

    He tangles a hand in her hair that’s still as soft and silky as he remembers. He gives a light tug. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, waits for another tug before she rewards him.

    It’s been years, but it all feels the same. Her lips move against his, kissing him in that way that he’s never experienced with anyone else. There’s teeth then a soothing tongue and pressure then a retreat that has him following every time.

    It’s when they’re like this that he’s surprised he didn’t follow her until he physically couldn't.

    She keeps her forehead against his after she pulls away. His breathing is more labored than he expected. “Imagine,” he says with a short laugh, “what I’d be like if we actually tried to fuck.”

    “I’d be gentle with you.” She drops one more kiss before resting her head on her arm again. “That was enough for me though.”

    His eyes are too heavy, too much excitement and too many drugs being pumped into him. “I’m a little tired.”

    “Of course.” He leaves his arm wrapped around her and she makes no attempt to leave. “Would you mind if I watched TV?”

    He shakes his head and turns off his hearing aids. She pulls his glasses off, setting them down on the tray across from her, and then flicks the tv on. He doesn’t catch what she decides to watch. As he falls asleep, she is everything. The only thing he can smell, the only thing he can taste, the only thing he can feel.

    Her hand moves to sit over his heart, forming a sign they’ve exchanged only a few times before. The last thing he does before he sleeps is mimic the sign for I love you against her back


End file.
